


Partners and Their Traditions

by gentlesin



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: 'cause I love both, ClinTasha if you squint, F/M, Gen, or just brotp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-03
Updated: 2013-09-03
Packaged: 2017-12-25 12:42:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/953236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gentlesin/pseuds/gentlesin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Clint needs a hand, Natasha is there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Partners and Their Traditions

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the imagineyourotp prompt, "Imagine your OTP watching fireworks together. Person A is sensitive to the big sounds and jumps every time a large *boom* occurs. Person B notices and places their hands over Person A's ears. They both smile at each other for a moment, and continue enjoying the colorful display with B's hands protecting A's ears."

If there was anything Clint Barton hated more than attending ceremonies in their honor, it was attending ceremonies in their honor on the fourth of July.

Natasha kept an eye on him as his jaw worked, his throat swallowing thickly every time he thought the focus was on someone else. She watched the material of his pants ruffle as his hands flexed in his pockets, and noted the slouch of his shoulders forward in a defensive posture.

Even though his role in aiding Loki’s invasion had been wiped from the official records by Fury himself, she knew Clint remembered every second of it. When things were quiet, she could catch him still trying to determine if his mind were his own and if he could trust himself to be whole.

She helped him. She brought him food when he’d forget to eat for long periods of time and sat with him when he needed to be reminded he wasn’t alone. His guilt had always been heavy, but she was strong and could shoulder a little of the burden for him.

When the first pyrotechnic launched and exploded in the sky, Clint’s shoulders tightened and she watched the muscle twitch at the outer edge of his temple. After the second, he closed his eyes, and by the third, she could catch the tremor run down his spine that signaled his desire to run.

She took two steps to the side, the crowd and their friend’s attentions diverted up as she came behind her partner and laid one flat hand between his shoulder blades.

He flinched under her touch, but she held steady until he recognized her presence. Once he let out a breath, she reached up, gently removing the discreet hearing aids from his ears and tucking them into a jacket pocket.

“Tasha,” he said, reaching a hand for hers as she zipped the pocket shut. She swatted his hand away, knowing how uncomfortable he felt being in plain sight without them, and also knowing that the loud explosions were keeping him about two seconds from a panic attack.

A firm hand on his shoulders directed him forward once again. The tension in his muscles wasn’t quite as tight, but she could still see him twitch with every boom, and her hands came up, once cupping each of his ears before pressing the palms flat to block out the sound.

He straightened for a minute, and she held fast, because when the sky lit up in a burst of blue and red and he didn’t curl in on himself, she’d known her choice was a good one.

Fireworks were beautiful to most, fun to the average civilian.

To them, they were reminders, triggers and panic sounds that put their minds’ on edge and their bodies ready to respond to a known threat.

A loud orange sunburst was the falling of a building in Budapest; the whistle of a white shot of light was an incoming missile waking them in the night.

Red for Lisbon. Green for Bogota. Purple was Dubai.

A finale of Manhattan.

When her hands started to shake, just the tiniest tremor that he could have passed off as a shift, his own hands came up to brace hers, interlacing their fingers as they lay at the sides of his head.

Natasha let her head rest on the middle of his back, her smile hidden in the cloth of his shirt.

She felt Steve’s eyes on them and turned her head to see him. There was concern in his brow, but she offered a small upturn of her lips and he returned a nod, a smile gracing his own face as he turned his attention back to the sky.

When the show was over and the crowd began to disperse, Natasha dropped her hands and fished Clint’s aids back out of her jacket.

“One day at a time, huh, Barton?” she said, offering them back with a smile.

His eyes read her lips as he took the aids and put them back in his ears. “That’s what you keep telling me.”

“Is it not working?”

He shrugged. “Got through another one, didn’t I?”

Her lips puckered at the corner and she reached for his hand, taking her calloused one into her own. “You did. You up for some late-night dinner?”

“Burgers? I don’t want none of that health-food shit you try to make me eat all the time.”

She chuckled a low laugh. “Don’t worry. I won’t hinder an American tradition today. They might kick me out.”

“Good. ‘Cause I ate three slices of Cap’s birthday cake earlier, too. Which is also a tradition.”

“Barton….”


End file.
